


Watch the Cucumber, See How He Moves

by crimsonkitty



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Awkwardness, Baseball, Gen, RPF, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:41:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moral of the story: We are all Brandon Belt.</p><p>Or: How to Impress Your New Teammates Who Are All Much More Famous and Important Than You Are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watch the Cucumber, See How He Moves

**Author's Note:**

> This is a late late laaaaaaaaaaaaate birthday present for Courtney. I seem to have a thing for writing rookie Belt, maybe because I identify with the kid so damn much. This story makes a reference to another story of mine called [First Meetings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/339342) but it's not necessary to read that one first. Thanks, Alex, for looking it over. Title from Veggie Tales' 'The Dance of the Cucumber'

It’s his first month with his name on someone’s list. First month wearing a big league uniform, number on the back that might not even be his come April. First month with Giants written across his chest in big orange letters, like he’d forget if he didn’t look down. He is Brandon Belt, first baseman for the San Francisco Giants.

That’s what it says on the little plastic namecard above his locker anyway. The one that makes him feel like Harry Potter, underneath the sorting hat.

Someone, somewhere, has made a terrible mistake.

They’re already talking. So-called _important_ people. He’s gonna do great things. He’s gonna make the team out of spring and things are gonna _happen_. Like he’s the next Will fucking Clark or something, hitting home runs off of Nolan Ryan and acting like it’s nothing. 

So, naturally, getting lost inside the stadium his first day was how he chose to start off his new life. Bumping into walls and discovering previously unused storage closets. As was almost killing Brian Wilson by knocking him over with the too large body he still hasn’t really grown into.

Exactly how he envisioned it, his stomach all knotted up and close to puking. Maybe if he was luckier, the place would’ve burnt down around his ears and no one would know. It was almost enough to send him packing for home, become an office worker with coffee stains and bad ties for the rest of his life.

But it’s too late now. Was probably too late the moment they called his name and San Francisco in the same sentence. So instead, he’s here. He’s here and standing awkward and hesitant in front of Tim Lincecum, of all people, the two-time Cy Young award winner, all around Bay Area god, and world champion.

With the long hair, tiny stature, a nickname he more than lives up to, and about to throw to Brandon in the first live bp session of the day, Brandon hadn’t really known what he was expecting. But his own jersey is already soaked through with sweat from the Arizona heat and his stomach gives a familiar lurch.

“So...” It comes out as a croak and Brandon gives some serious thought to throwing himself off the stadium wall.

The corner of Lincecum’s mouth lifts up into a half smile, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.

“So...?” He voice encourages Brandon to keep going, pulling an arm behind his head and stretching out his shoulder.

“So, you’re pretty... good. And stuff.” The cringe on his face is getting deeper and deeper. His mouth isn’t working, dry and tacky and full of too many words. He pinches his thigh, hoping the pain will magically turn him into an adult and make him capable of talking to another person without screwing up.

Lincecum’s eyebrows slant down in confusion and his head tilts to the side. “...What?” he asks, with a slight chuckle.

“You know. Good. The way you throw... baseballs... and oh my GOD.” Brandon slaps a hand over his eyes and shakes his head until he’s dizzy.

“Thanks. I think.” Lincecum laughs at him, concern filtering in through the threads of it and Brandon thinks this might be a nightmare he’s never going to wake up from. 

“No.” He keeps shaking his head. “No, just. Don’t thank me.”

“Okay,” Lincecum says easily. His sunglasses flash in the sun.

“Just-” Brandon feels his whole body sag in defeat. “Just pat me on the butt while I go die in the corner over there.”

Brandon turns and Lincecum gently pats him on the rear end before Brandon walks away, his shoulders up around his ears, refusing to look at anything or anyone. He’s proud of himself for not running.

Later though, after they’ve all showered and dressed and said their goodbyes. After Brandon has skinned both knees and taken a baseball off the jaw, bruise coming in dark and purple. After.

Brandon is bent over, tying shoes and hoping that’s not blood soaking through his jeans, when he feels a hand come up from behind and ruffle his hair.

“Wha-” He startles, but by the time he turns around, Lincecum is on the other side of the room.


End file.
